


Reopened

by InMutualWeirdness



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, John Watson Is Not The Only One Who Swears, Lestrade Deals With A Lot Of Shit, Lestrade is a Good Copper, Paternal Lestrade, Post-Reichenbach, Reunion, Sherlock Can't Handle His Feelings, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, or at the very least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-06 23:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InMutualWeirdness/pseuds/InMutualWeirdness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Lestrade gets back to his old division, a seemingly mundane murder case gets complicated when an anonymous tipper gets involved. </p><p>Or: two not-dead men chase each other around London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reopened

**Author's Note:**

> For Sherlock Minibang
> 
> Drawings by humandisguise.tumblr.com
> 
> Also: there's a quick omake/mini-comic after the fic that I would recommend looking at.

Three years ago, two things happened in January.

One: Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, committed suicide by jumping off the roof of St. Bartholomew's.

Two: Nothing was quite the same.

The media went into a complete frenzy, printing article after article about the "fake genius," covering every detail, whether true or not, about his life, death, and the subsequent review of all his cases.

A select few people went into mourning, and two websites went without an update for a very long time.

But very few remembered the other things that happened after.

Three: Several careers came under fire. Because Scotland Yard investigates all kinds of criminals, no matter where they may be. But also because of

Four: Even if Sherlock Holmes had been laid to rest, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was still alive.

\------

 

When the badge first went missing, he was only annoyed. Ever since the trial, his supervisors had been waiting for the smallest chance to take him out. They'd rake him over the coals for an infraction like this.

His team--well, it wasn't his, not really. (Anderson and Donovan weren't there. Big brother could only go so far.) The team noticed his sudden frown, and Mulligan asked what was wrong. Lestrade shrugged off their concern. "I'm fine. I just...need to check something out. I'll be back," he promised, before ducking under the yellow police tape and walking away.

He couldn't possibly have just forgotten his badge. It was his badge for crying out loud. Even the worst on the force could keep track of their badges. And to say that Lestrade was a bad cop, well.

You clearly wouldn't have known him or even seen him.

Still, he walked down the road, trying to retrace his steps. Because who could've possibly stolen his badge? He had it on him all the time when he was on duty. And it was very hard to steal something off a person.

Actually, it wasn't impossibly hard. It happened all the time, some quick fingered, quick witted thief waiting in the crowd for that one moment of lapsed vigilance. That's what he'd had to work with for almost three years now. Just because he was a cop didn't exempt him from being robbed.

As he left the darkened parking lot where the victim lay, something on the wall of the dilapidated apartment building across the street caught his eye. Three foot tall messages in fluorescent spray paint tended to do that. Lestrade sighed, now more irritated than guilty. Two years of ASBO duty had made him numb to these bright yellow messages. The homeless living in the streets of London had this odd, but strong friendship with Sherlock. In a way, he never did leave the streets. The streets followed him. And left illegal graffiti everywhere.

 _You're turning into a bloody romantic, Greg,_ he told himself, sharply _Focus._

\-------

Lestrade's Mental Case File: Case #23.5

The Missing Badge

Scenario 1: Some idiot at work stole it as a prank. Though everyone and their mother said that Lestrade was pretty much the best person to invite for a pint or two, all of his humor had fallen out the window after he'd been demoted. No, scratch that, he checked his humor at the door when he was on duty.

Clearly, his taste had also died somewhere along th--dammit!

Scenario 2: The badge was currently in the possession of some random pickpocket, running around the streets of London. He/she was either childishly stupid, or far too crafty for comfort.

Scenario 3: The pressure had finally gotten to his head and he had forgotten it. Which was the most unlikely out of all of them, but if there was one thing that he did know, it was that the world was not made to meet his expectations. So he added it on, just in case.

\------

Because Scenario 1 was the most likely one and the easiest to pursue, Lestrade went to Scotland Yard. Then realized that he had almost no way to ask about his badge without giving away that he'd lost it.

Before he could even formulate his question, Dimmock noticed him. "Ah, Greg! Come over here a moment."

"What is it?" he asked, confused. Dimmock was a perfectly good man, achieving well-earned success with his career. But that had put him on a rather different track than Lestrade's. While he had once been advising Dimmock (and still was, actually), they didn't exactly speak to each other often.

Dimmock lead him to a bulletin board where a couple officers were standing, discussing with hushed tones a message pinned there.

"An anonymous tipper?" Lestrade guessed.

"Sigerson, this time," Dimmock confirmed.

"What's the tip? Whose case is it?"

"It's... not exactly a tip," Dimmock said, vaguely. "Take a look for yourself."

When the assembled crowd saw him, they stopped talking, moving out of his way. Which was odd. Did the message have something to do with him? He looked at the board.

It seemed that, in the wake of Sherlock's death, people had begun to emulate the man's freelance detective work. Even though he'd been bashed and attacked for being a fraud, the idea of Sherlock had lived on. The graffiti had been part of it. But a few eager citizens had actually begun stepping into the man's shoes. Notes came in intermittently, starting in the second year, on scraps of paper, napkins, actual letters, some sort of readable form. Once there had been a screenshot from a website (which conveniently ceased existing after the detectives had followed the lead). Many names had been attached to these tips, which were still essentially anonymous. Ranging from John Doe to Sherrinford, the names made the identity of the tipper(s) impossible to pin down. Three names appeared more than the others: Vernet, Hope, and Sigerson.

Sigerson generally left written notes on scraps of paper that appeared to be scrounged from the streets. The message pinned on the board was typed--clearly a reproduction of the actual note. It read,

"Victim poisoned, business rivalry, check for missing funds and discoloration."

A fairly normal message from him. But the line below made Lestrade freeze.

"Greg L, check your pockets."

Aware that everyone was staring at him, Lestrade reached into his pockets. All of them, jacket, shirt, pants--

He stuck his hand in again. His wallet was gone. "Shit." _Shit shit, shit shit, shit shit shit_.

"What? What is it about?"

"I--" He had to tell them. Miscommunication, no matter how minor, could become absolutely catastrophic. "My wallet. I was out on the scene of a crime, them came back here. Sigerson took my wallet."

Jen--so that's why she was here--nodded. "I figured. Don't worry, the actual note's at the lab. We're doing everything; fingerprints, handwriting, DNA. We'll catch the guy for you."

Alex sighed. "Sucks, huh? All the good non-Met detectives turn out to be crooks."

Lestrade felt everyone's attention turn to him and Young. Unlike the Sergeant, he kept his mouth shut, taking his leave as the man babbled out hasty apologies.

He had a job to do.

"Greg! Greg, wait," Jenna cried, running after him. "Can you stay? We need to ask a few questions."

"What does it matter? I didn't even know it was gone." He looked at her, and she didn't look away. "I had it while I was at the crime scene. I should probably be headed back."

"Well, alright then," she said. "Tell me if you see any signs of him out there. We've been wanting to track him down for ages."

"I will," he promised. Then he continued down the hall, out the door. He was still on the murder case. It wouldn't do to play hooky.

\------

With some judicial siren usage, he made it back in time. Sort of. The investigation was wrapping up, actually.

"Where've you been, running off with our squad car like that?" Roberts asked, when he stepped out. "I thought I'd have to take a taxi. And all my stuff was in the car."

Shit. So that's what he'd forgotten. "Sorry, Pete," Lestrade said. The taxi bit was an exaggeration, but he had reason to be a little upset. "I had to go back to the Yard."

"What, did you forget something."

"Sort of. They had a lead," he replied, speaking slowly enough to give himself time. "Well, not quite a lead. See, a tip came. Sigerson."

"What was it?" Roberts asked. "Tell me."

Lestrade recited it for him. Roberts started to go back to reexamine the corpse, looking for the discoloration mentioned. "We'll need someone to investigate those funds, then," he said.

"Wait, there's something else," Lestrade said. "He addressed me in the note. Directly." Roberts didn't speak, but Lestrade answered his unvoiced question. "He told me to look in my pockets. And my wallet was gone."

Roberts raised an eyebrow. "I'm surprised they let you drive back here, without your license."

Even though he knew that no one on his team was willing to surrender him to the higher ups, Lestrade had still prepared justification. "I drove to the Met because I didn’t realize my wallet was gone. And once I was there, I couldn’t leave the car behind. I just tried very hard to not screw up behind the wheel. The traffic people know me, anyway." He saw Roberts's expression of exaggerated shock and horror and Lestrade quickly added, "I'm not doing that again, though. I only did that because I had to. You're driving on the way back."

"Sure, sure," Roberts said. "Well, we ought to get back now. Unless you need to pursue your lead or anything?”

“To be honest, I have no idea if this even qualifies as a case.”

“Well, you’ve been robbed," Roberts said. "Robbed by someone who seems to know something about the case you're covering too. I'd say it's relevant."

Well, he had made a little mental case file on it already. Perhaps it did qualify as a personal case, if nothing else. "Don't exactly know where I could look, though. If I had an idea of where this Sigerson has been, or what he looks like, perhaps I could do something."

"No phonebook searching?"

"Not with just one name. They've tried things already. We have several possible people, but it's nowhere near reliable enough to go on."

"It's a start."

"I suppose." It would be a long search, though. And there were already people working on the robbery. "We should go back, though. That's where I'd have to start the search."

"Right then," Roberts said. "We'd best be going." Everyone else had pretty much pulled away by now.

They got into the car, Lestrade taking the left side while Roberts took the driver's seat. They buckled themselves up. Roberts twisted himself back to take a look at his things, which were still occupying the back of the car.

"You moved them," Roberts complained.

"I had to. You should just keep them together, in a big bag."

"Yes, Mummy."

That probably deserved a smack or a some retort, but just then, they pulled out of the crime scene and there was a sight waiting for them.

"Again?" Lestrade cried.

"You've seen this before?" Roberts exclaimed.

Lestrade started to say something, but...He hadn't seen this before, honestly. Because this spray paint thing was old hat, but the thing he was reading on the walls was so shockingly new that he was glad that he wasn't driving.

The message was bright, neon yellow. In plain, all capital letters, the wall said, "#SHERLOCKLIVES"

The messages came from street artists, and were meant to be eye-catching and attention-grabbing. But this--it couldn't have been the artists. Their typical fare, "I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK" and "MORIARTY WAS REAL" never claimed that the detective was still living. Unless this was just some Grand Metaphor, which just so happened to be ripping out his old stitches.

Roberts drove on past it, paying Lestrade no mind. "Those graffiti artists," he grumbled. "We gave them a street! No need for them to keep vandalizing other places."

They made it to Scotland Yard without any other incidents. The path they took wasn't normally spray painted or tagged, but Lestrade had kept an eye out the window. Whether he was looking for another #SHERLOCKLIVES message or hoping that he wouldn't see it again was something he'd have to put to the side. Her had better things to worry about.

Like how he would face the people waiting right behind the office door for him.

"Any leads?"

"Where did you go?"

"You know, there's another message."

He sighed. Of course. He'd have to give up hope of having his day improve or make sense. "Where is it?"

"On the board, as always." Jen frowned. "We've got to get someone watching. There has to be an accomplice in here or something, always dropping these things off."

He hummed a reply, having eyes only for the note. Well, the typed reproduction, anyway. They definitely weren't going to leave the original hanging about now.

There it was, neatly typed on clean printer paper. Was the original scribbled on a napkin? Perhaps a coffee shop napkin, some street side place with logos. It would be a place to start the search.

"Looking for something?" it read. "I may have something of interest. Thieves frequent certain establishments."

Well. That was stupendously unhelpful. He was tempted to check the other side, in case he had missed something. But it was a typed recreation. There wouldn't be a second side. These few lines were all there was. Honestly, what was he looking for, some "Meet me at Hyde Park, 12 noon, with a pink carnation" type confrontation?

Jen stood beside him. "What do you think?"

"He's toying with us," Lestrade concluded. "Somehow, he knows what's going on. Likely an inside man."

"Doubt he could go unnoticed for that long," she agreed. "We'd notice the same person showing up all the time."

He wanted to mention the graffiti. That felt important, but was that just his guilt-ridden sentimentality? The graffiti had been a problem for a long time, and focusing on the death of that man would distract him. This, he could put away and ignore. "Do you think it's an invitation?"

"None of them seem like the type for theatrics," Jen said. "Well, not before this happened, anyway."

"Mysterious anonymous tippers that are scarily accurate are pretty theatrical," Lestrade said. "And Sigerson's rather plain with his notes. Always the important details. He wouldn't mention this if it wasn't important."

"Unless that's what he wants?" Jen theorized, crossing her arms and raising a hand to her cheek. "Us coming to the crime scene."

"If we give him what he wants, maybe he'll come out."

Jen frowned. "Anyone going to be watching the parking garage? Best way to catch the guy, if that's where he stole your wallet."

"Yeah." Lestrade blinked. "Have I been conscripted into this case to solve my own robbery?"

"You agreed to watch duty," Jen said, shrugging. Then she grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. "Welcome to the division, Greg."

He laughed in surprise. "It's not mine."

"It is now."

\------

Stakeouts, as a general rule, weren't nearly as exciting as cop shows and stories made them out to be. More often than not, they were a whole lot of nothing. It was just a waiting game, and those were obviously paragons of drama and excitement.

 _Right_ ,  Lestrade thought, shifting his aching bum on his chair. _Let's see CSI do something like this_. Not so fun when it was off camera, was it? No glitz or glamour, just a long sit in at a nasty parking garage. At least it wasn't raining, or at night. That would've been even worse. Those were the stakeouts he spoke about, if only to complain about how tedious and horrible they were.

He looked at his watch, something he had likely done spent more time doing than actually watching the scene. You couldn't blame him; the watch was more exciting by far. When he looked back at the garage again, he did so a little guiltily. If he had volunteered, he should take this seriously.

He looked back at the watch. A few seconds had passed. Thirty-two minutes to go.

And then he saw a shadow move in the corner of his eye. Lestrade stood up abruptly. "Hello?" he called, loudly. Nothing moved, but he felt the presence of his little visitor. "I saw you. I know you're here. If you could just come back...or return my wallet at least. I don't want to beg for a ride from one of my fellow officers."

Was that the shuffle of muffled footsteps? He listened harder, slowly approaching the spot where he thought the noise was coming from. Now the torch came out, and Lestrade shone it in all the corners. "I am a DI. It would be better for you to comply."

And--there, by the column. Lestrade's eyes went wide as he saw. The hem of a peacoat. Then he blinked and it was gone. He broke into a run, but when he got there, the person had gone. And all he could think was _How--?_

The graffiti, the note, and now the coat. Even the petty thievery felt vaguely familiar. A thought began to form in his mind. _Eliminate the impossible, and whatever remains..._

No. This couldn't be happening. Sherlock Holmes had died. He may not have watched it happen, but John had, and the newspapers had been all over it. There was no way it could be Sherlock. Dead men stayed dead, and to assume otherwise would be irrational. Sherlock didn't have to be involved in everything, so why was Lestrade even considering this? He was not Inspector Javert, dammit. For one thing, he was decidedly not suicidal. There was more to his life than obsessing over one annoying, former criminal. And if the Sherlock’s widower (bosom buddy? almost-lover?) could move on, then it certainly wasn’t past him. Sherlock Holmes was dead, and that was the end of it.

It was in his head, probably. Plenty of people could've owned coats like that. It was just his lack of sleep and the appearance of the weird new messages messing with him. That was likely it. No point in dwelling.

Lestrade sighed, walking back to his little hiding spot. If only this car park were better lit.

His phone rang when he was halfway there. "What?" he said, still a little cross and frustrated.

"Greg, Greg!" It was Roberts.

"What's wrong? Did something happen?"

"Where are you? Find a telly. You need to see what's on the news!"

Find a telly? Why would he need to do that? "Just tell me what's going on," Lestrade said, confused. What could possibly be that urgent?

"I..." Whatever Roberts was going to say, he decided against it. "It'd be better if you..."

"Oh for God's sake, give that to me." There was muffled movement as the phone changed hands.

Lestrade was really interested now. "Jen? What?"

"Get back to the station," Jen ordered."Something big is happening."

"What? What is it? Can't any of you tell me?"

Silence on the other end, except for a distant voice. "Who's that talking there? Is that what's going on?"

Jen sighed. "Yes. Just...Just listen. And sit down."

He barely had enough time to lean against a column when he heard what they were talking about.

"Sher--" He cut himself off. Yes, that was totally a reaction that a not-Javert would have. But that voice, it was real. This was an actual recording of Sherlock Holmes. He was speaking to someone--Lestrade sat down. Good Lord, was that Richard Brook? He couldn't hear them all that well, not with the wind muffling their words. Where were they, a mountain or something? A building?

_Oh my God, they're on the roof of Saint Bart's._

Just when Lestrade thought it couldn't get any worse, Sherlock called the man Moriarty, and Richard Brook answered.

 

He did not know how long he sat there, listening. He heard the two of them, locked in a verbal chess match, Sherlock slowly wheedling out a confession and Moriarty delivering his final ultimatum. When the gunshot came, Lestrade almost fell out of his seat. Then the recording cut off with a beep. Sherlock probably recorded the whole conversation on his smartphone, Lestrade realized, feigning ignorance to play up Moriarty's ego and get the story out.

He sat there in silence for a long, long time, his phone dangling limply in his hand. Moriarty had been real. Lestrade had fallen into his trap, pushed there even as he regretted every step of the way. There had been a sniper. There had been a sniper coming after him, and Sherlock had died to save him. He had always wondered if the suicide had been his fault. Now he was right, but not in the way he had feared. That only made it worse.

God dammit. It wasn't fair. They had all moved on already. And now Lestrade was hearing that voice again, arrogant and cocksure and...alive. He had been a force of nature, seizing life by the lapels, cleverer than everybody even up to his final moments. And now he was six feet down. That recording would be the last he would ever hear from him.

"Lestrade?" Jen's voice came from the phone, but Lestrade ignored her. They'd ask him to go back to the Yard, to deal with the ongoing investigation into Sherlock. But he wanted to stay in this car park. The distance from the chair to the nearest form of mass transit was too great. Why couldn't he at least have his wallet back, so he could drive himself around London as opposed to running about the noisy crowds? It was nicer in a car; you had your own space.

"Lestrade? Listen, I know you're in shock, but you have to get back in." Slowly, he raised the phone back to his ear, but didn't speak. "The supervisors and everybody are calling us all in. We can pick you up if necessary, but you still have to come in."

"You don't have to," Lestrade protested reflexively.

"Actually, we will," Roberts said. "Wait there, I'm coming." Lestrade could hear him leave the room, keys jangling.

"We're sorry," Jen repeated. What else could they say?

"See you in a few, then."

\------

He went out and--bloody hell, this day just wasn’t going to end, was it? Just his luck that he’d see a teen spray painting a message in that awful yellow paint, literally across the street from him.

“Hey! You! Stop!” The boy saw him, his eyes flying wide. He sprinted away, the yellow spray can still in hand. Lestrade broke into a run, chasing him. Maybe he wasn’t technically supposed to be dealing with these types of criminals, but something convinced him to pursue the boy.

They broke out of the alleyway, into the main street. As they barreled past onlookers, who were still somehow unable to realize that getting out of his way might be a good idea, Lestrade began to regret this decision more and more. He never really thought about his age, but his lungs and heart were not what they used to be. The boy was starting to fall out of sight, his read beanie bobbing up and down as he increased the distance between them.

Lestrade put on an extra burst of speed, gasping for breath. Age had made him stubborn at least, enough to catch the perp out of effort alone. This was not his first chase, and his target was only a boy, really, unable to hurt him in any way. He wasn't armed. It was easy for him to fall into a steady rhythm, feet tap-tap-tapping against the pavement, until the pounding of his heart faded into the background. Eventually, they turned back onto empty streets, narrow back alleys. Without anymore real obstructions, Lestrade found it much easier to run.

That moment, as he started closing in on the boy, the boy looked back and swiftly bowled the can of paint at his feet. He let out a cry of surprise, cursing as his rhythm stumbled and broke. There was not enough time to dodge properly. His feet stuttered around it until he found his ground again, but now the boy was even further from Lestrade now. It would be so, so hard to catch him.

Why was he even trying? This boy wasn't even worth it, just a simple, petty vandal. What reason did he have to chase him? His feet slowed as he wondered. But he couldn't give up. He was a cop, and a damn good one. He started this, and he would end this.

So he pushed on, hanging a quick right, past the alley opening and--oh, of course he was going to hide in a building. Lestrade grabbed the door just before it swung shut, squeezing through, past a particularly confused secretary. She got to her feet, yelling something, but he was already across the room, headed for a hallway and a quickly closing glass door. He opened it and ran on, slowing to a stop when he realized the boy had vanished. Gasping, he bent over and trying to catch his breath. Figures, after all that effort, the guy would still get away.

Carefully, Lestrade stood up again--bending over might not have been a good idea--and looked around to see where he was. He immediately squinted in confusion. The car park again? This had to be more than coincidence. Why had the boy lead him right back to where they started? He reached into his pockets for--something, so he wouldn't be here without some form of defense. Best thing he could find was his mobile, which he kept in his hand, resting in the pocket. No need to panic; this could just be a weird attempt at misdirection. He was still debating whether speed dialing 999 would be a better option than Roberts when he heard someone walking towards him.

In a panic, he turned toward the sound, accidentally pulling his phone out of his pocket. It fell to the ground when he saw who was standing there.

\------

He had to have been hallucinating. This wasn’t something that happened to him. Because he could maybe, vaguely understand why Sherlock Holmes, a narcissistic and brilliant and possibly good man, had committed suicide. Because it had happened, and it was possibly Lestrade’s fault. But it broke all suspension of disbelief to see him, standing there, in a parking garage, wearing his usual suit and shirt and shoes.

“Who are you?” Lestrade demanded. This had to be some trick. Some kind of twisted game the universe was playing with him.

“Lestrade,” the man said, equal parts sarcasm and cordiality, “if you could see my invitation, surely you wouldn’t be blind enough to not realize who I am.”

“But--” But it can’t be, he wanted to say. And that would have been the most cliched thing out of his mouth in a long time. He was tempted to check for hidden cameras, but this man spoke with the same cadence, the same manner. Lestrade had known him too long to not recognize it.

In a moment of confused self-indulgence, his eyes strayed to a corner. Right there, turned directly at them, was a CCTV camera. _God,_ he’s _watching?_ Well, now it definitely was real life then.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said.

The consulting detective spread his hands out, in a ‘here I am’ kind of gesture. “I’ve told you time and time again,” Sherlock chided. “What would it take to get you to see and not just observe?”

Lestrade was very, very tempted to punch him. But he saw that Sherlock’s face was unmarked. Meaning that the detective hadn’t just been avoiding him all day. Better to leave the bodily blows to John; both of them would deserve it.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t slug him verbally, though. Oh boy, did he have words for him.

“Where in God’s name have you been?”

“The past few years? Out on business--”

“Don’t be coy with me!” Lestrade yelled. It echoed up and down the empty building.  “Two and a half years, you were gone. You faked your bloody death. Do you have any idea what I’ve gone through because of what you did?”

He was even making it easy for Sherlock, every emotion pouring out at once, so he could deduce them and pick them apart.

“I am aware of how your day has been," he replied, like he was indulging Lestrade's complaints. "And I apologize for having caused you distress.”

“Why couldn’t you just show up like a normal person?” Lestrade asked. “Was this goose chase even necessary? I’ve gone back to this car park about three times today. Even you have to realize that wasn’t necessary.”

Sherlock finally looked away, suddenly finding his shoes more interesting. “I was...indecisive,” he finally admitted.

“Indecisive. Indecisive,” Lestrade echoed. Repeating things never made them make more sense, but he could only hope. “You had me running around this city for the better part of a day because you didn’t know if you wanted me to know that you--”

Livid. He was absolutely livid. “Almost three years,” he said, jabbing the bastard solidly in the chest. He flinched back, which made Lestrade feel slightly better. “And you just come marching back in--”

“I stayed in touch,” he protested.

“Those notes? Those scraps of paper?” The note was still in his hand. He brandished it in front of him, and it flopped about like the pathetic thing it was. “That was Sigerson. Vernet. Not you.” Sherlock did not respond, only eying the note like a curiosity. Confound that man--he could go on a goddamned two and a half year long vengeance quest to keep his loved ones safe, and yet he couldn’t understand Lestrade’s response? Reason at the very least could tell him why. That leaving all of their lives in pieces--John, him, Mrs. Hudson, Molly--was definitely not good.

“You know I could arrest you,” Lestrade said, impulsively. And it was the best idea he had come up with all day.

Sherlock stared, raising his head like some surprised peacock. “Whatever for?”

“Robbery? Obstruction of justice? Reckless endangerment? I’m sure I could figure something out--something that you’ve done these past few years is sure to be of interest. But of course, you never told me a thing.”

“I couldn’t, Lestrade,” Sherlock said. “I had things to do. Moriarty was the head of a huge web of crime. Surely, they would’ve noticed. So I had to be careful.”

“Sure you did.” He did have reason to be careful. He had a reason for all of this, if that recording was to be believed. And that made Lestrade all the angrier, because this wasn’t some cut and dried conflict. Both sides had a reason for doing what they did. But that was life. This mess was his life, now, whether he wanted it to be or not.

“I killed people," Sherlock blurted out. "I--I had to chase people across continents, tracking them down while they chased me. For two years I didn't always get away."

“You seem rather undamaged, in that case.”

“That’s because I waited.” He raised a hand, cutting Lestrade’s tirade off. “No. _Listen to me._ I had to. When I returned after killing the last sniper, I was half dead and starving. My brother put me into a hospital, so I could recover from my wounds. Every day of my recovery was painful to me,” Sherlock hissed. “The entire time, I wanted to come home. I’ve missed this. This city. Do you know how good it feels to no longer be hunted? To no longer have to worry about people hounding you, trying to cut you down in every way possible?”

“Are you going to ask me to imagine?” Lestrade said. “Because, trust me, I know very well how that feels.”

Sherlock fell silent, at a complete loss for what to say. “Perhaps I should’ve waited longer,” he muttered, backing away. “This was a failure.”

“Oh no," Lestrade said, shaking his head. "Oh no you don't. Don't think that you can run away again. You've come home. And you will come back to John and Molly and Mrs. Hudson because you are their friend and they deserve better than to live your lie."

He wanted to. It was as obvious as Sherlock always claimed the world to be. And for a moment, Lestrade thought that he was a good man.

And then that door slammed shut. Sherlock turned away. "No," he said. "It's not going to work."

"You owe them that, at least. And you deserve it."

"What?"

"A home. Did you really think that you'd be able to stay away?"

"If they'll reject me, what choice would I have?"

Lestrade grit his teeth together. "God dammit, Sherlock!" And then he leaned in and hugged him tightly.

Sherlock jumped a little in his arms, tensing as if preparing to defend himself, and Lestrade realized that yes, he had been doing something all this time.

They let go, and then Lestrade remembered the camera that hung in the corner of the car park. Suddenly remembering their unwanted watcher, he turned around. The camera was still pointed directly at them.

Sherlock followed his gaze and frowned in turn. “Ah. Well, there are some things I haven’t missed.”

Lestrade covered his face with his hands and sighed. “God, he’ll be showing up at my house at unholy hours again, isn’t he? Couldn’t you...stop him, maybe?”

Sherlock smirked. “I know of nothing that can stop him. I can, however, do this.”

He reached into the pocket of his big dramatic coat, pulling out a--Lestrade squinted to see better. “Is that a pebble?”

Sherlock scanned the corner of the car park, where the columns were and where precisely the camera was. Lestrade fell silent, in anticipation. Of what exactly, he didn’t know.

Then Sherlock threw the pebble. Which bounced off a column, then up against a mirror, and then the two of them watched as the lens of the camera fell down onto the black pavement below.

Lestrade stuttered out a stupefied, “How?”

“Believe it or not, Lestrade, I have learned things during my years abroad,” Sherlock said, simply. And then he marched off, presumably to find another friend to reunite with/terrify.

Maybe he should be angry with him. And he was. But he knew that maybe, if enough time passed, they could work something out and be partners again. And if Sherlock didn't know, well, it was his duty to teach him otherwise.

He was a cop, after all. It was his duty to expose the truth. And Lestrade was a damn good cop.

 

**Omake:**

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was an unbelievably fun thing to write. Lestrade pretty much wrote himself, in all his snarky glory.
> 
> I already know this is going to be horribly jossed by 9 pm GMT, but if the show is going to be cynical and dark, that's just more reason to write as much schmoopy reunion fic as possible.
> 
> Here's to Season 3. Happy New Year.


End file.
